The House of Lost Ways
by CueDrumRollPlease
Summary: "Hmmm… The House of Lost Ways," Nat mumbled. "Strange, but I can imagine that many people would have found that attractive. I wouldn't mind a trip," she said light heartedly. She picked up the sword, with a final laugh and in a satirical voice she said, "Take me away, to the House of Lost Ways."
1. Prologue

Prologue:

Nat yelped as she attempted to tighten one of the springs on the wind-up ballerina only to have it pop out of place and bounce off of one of the cuckoo clocks that she had refinished and scratch off a patch of drying varnish.

"Darn, gosh and golly!" she cried out in frustration. She could vaguely hear Grandma Patrice's admonition in her head. _"Only the uncultured use minced oaths, Natalie. Grants are never uncultured."_

"Grant's also never work with their hands," Nat grumbled to herself. "Not that you're around anyway to rain disapproval upon my plebian choice of employment." She said this to the delicately fashioned _Columbine _that had so vexed her. She had actually designed the figure off of the Grant Family Matriarch from black and white photographs of the woman's youth in a finishing school in Italy. She thought it was apropos that though the figure looked as delicate as crystal, it was crafted of steel. "Much like mygrand-mère," she muttered to herself.

It was true that the last scion of the most vaunted House of Grant did pick a most unsuitable calling, and what some would ungraciously call a hobby, seeing that Natalie never had and probably never would have to work for her living. In any case an artist might have been acceptable, even an approved choice had she not picked iron, steel, and copper as her mediums. Anything that required an understanding of Mechanical engineering with an emphasis on metallurgy and also required that she make use of a blow torch and an old fashioned blacksmiths bellows would never be considered appropriate for a Lady of the House. The use of her blacksmith's hammer also had the added con of ensuring that she had the broadest shoulders and thickest arms ever to grace the Hallowed Halls of Nordstrom's.

"Though," she admitted to herself with a shrug, "it is fun sending pushy shop girls off to find evening gowns that would never in billion years come in a size to fit across my shoulders."

As she reached down to pick up the wayward spring, she heard a knock on the door to her workshop. Focusing on the cuckoo clock again, she saw that it was almost six.

"Shoot, Gerard is here," she mumbled. "Going to go off into ecstasies about the newest pre-historic artifact I'm sure."

"Nat, darling," she heard through the door, "don't be boorish and pretend you can't hear me!"

"Fine then, there's nobody here but us chickens!" she replied. Standing back up and giving her back a satisfying stretch.

"Just open the door, you hammer-wielding misanthrope," came the disgruntled reply. "Why you insist on cooping yourself up in this musty barn you call a workshop when you ought to be sipping cocktails at the Ritz, I don't know. It's 1925, my sweet, and your rich and if you didn't insist on being strong enough to throw a calf over your shoulder, attractive." Nat blew a loose curl out of her face as she opened the door to her loquacious friend. Gerard sent her a charming smile and twinkled blue eyes from behind his circular rimmed glasses. "You should be reducing the general male population into one quivering pulp right now," he finished.

"It just turned five now," Nat replied sourly. "Hardly cocktail hour. And why in the nine hells would I want to reduce anyone into piles of quivering manflesh?"

"Not piles," he replied cheekily, "a pile. Much more challenging. And I know you like a challenge. Imagine the logistics involved in getting them all together so that you can use your impressive feminine wiles upon at one time."

"Gerard, stop trying to charm me and just show me what you want, so you can leave and I can finish my commission." Nat replaced the spring and attempted to set it before she made her way out of the shop and across the Rose Garden, then the kitchen garden to the kitchen door. Gerard followed behind and pretended to pout at Nat's grouchy reply.

He straightened his waistcoat and settled his glasses on his nose. "Fine then little miss business only," he replied. "I left it on the tea table."

Nat's heart skipped a beat. "Don't panic," he said, "I made sure not to scratch the varnish. Wouldn't want to damage your precious antiques."

"Your one talk of antiques, Gerard," she said almost spitefully. Missing lunch and four o'clock tea always put her in an awful mood.

"They are not antiques," he said with a huff. "They are artifacts, of the most rare and important nature. Why I feel the need to educate ungrateful cretins like yourself, I'll never know."

"Educate me, my foot. You brought it here because it's easier to come to me for a description of the alloys found in that bizarre dig of yours than to do it yourself or contact that so and so of a Geologist, Lee, to do it.

"The term you're looking for is prick, darling," he said with a sigh. "And that is true, I didn't want to risk damaging it by breaking out chemistry set. How you can make your diagnosis just by looking is beyond me."

"It's a gift," she said with a smile. "Now let's see what we have here." They sat down in front of the tea table and Nat picked up the strange item placed there.

It was a long thin sword, a foot and a half in length with spiraling script wound about the length of the blade. From her limited experience dealing with Grant's previous artifacts, the blade appeared to be inscribed with Nordic runes, but what they actually said was beyond her knowledge. "Did you find it in some religious site? Perhaps a temple mound of some sort?" she queried.

"Yes," he replied, "it's obviously ceremonial with the amount of detail."

"I would say so." Her brow wrinkled. "This is embarrassing, but I don't know what it is. Usually I'm able to tell, but it's too hard to be bronze, the wrong sheen for iron, and entirely the wrong color for steel, not that I would expect steel in a Nordic mound. I've never seen anything like it."

She picked it up and ran her finger along the edge, drawing a miniscule drop of blood across the blade. "Amazing, it's still sharp," she said in wonder. She looked up into Gerard's face, not noticing when the drop of blood was pulled into the runes and disappeared. "What does the inscription say?" she asked in a hushed tone.

Standing behind her to read over her shoulder, he bent down and squinted over the sword. "I only transcribed the first half of the inscription, the second half is in a runic alphabet I am unfamiliar with. Roughly, the first half translates to 'This is the key to the House of Lost Ways. Many have found It's doors and entered It's halls but few have found their way back.' Ominous, isn't it?"

"Hmmm… The House of Lost Ways," Nat mumbled. "Strange, but I can imagine that many people would have found that attractive. I wouldn't mind a trip," she said light heartedly. She picked up the sword, with a final laugh and in a satirical voice she said, "Take me away, to the House of Lost Ways." Then she sliced the sword downwards and prepared to return it Gerard, but as she turned to face him, she saw his handsome bookish face drain of color and then he was gone.

Or perhaps, she was gone.

Gone to where? Where was she? What is this place?

She was nowhere. Everywhere. There was a swirling whiteness that consumed her mind, and sometimes when it seemed as though she had forgotten who or what she was, the whiteness would clear, and for a moment she would be Nat again. But she wasn't Nat, not Nat-As-She-Was. A different Nat. She would know things, lost things. Runes would come to her, Runes but not runes. Runes that did instead of runes that said. And then the whiteness would swirl and she was Not-Nat again.

The whiteness came and went it felt like for a thousand thousands of years, making and unmaking her, a painful maddening experience that left her wishing she could take a breath in place where air was not needed. And finally when the agony receded she remembered that she had eyes, and when she opened them the whiteness was gone and replaced by, by… _what was it again? Ah, yes, sky._ She stared up into the vastness of the sky unblinking for many hours remembering. Recalling how to take air into her lungs, how to flex her fingers, how to light a forge, and inscribe runes into a sword so that its edge never dulled, how to fit gears together to make a doll dance, and the color of her dead mother's eyes. So many things returned to her, and she was once again completely Nat, the Nat-That-Is. _A strange Nat,_ she thought. _But I cannot be other than what I am._

She pulled her aching body to her feet and looked out into the unfamiliar territory. _I do not know this place,_ she thought with indifference. Her stomach growled and she set her mind on finding people. She saw several spires of smoke in the distance that looked like they might belong to a town and made her way in that direction in the hopes of dinner and a bed. _Sleep, I remember enjoying that,_ she thought. _I never seemed to want to leave my bed,_ she mused in slight amusement. _I wonder why that was._

_Perhaps I will remember._


	2. Chapter 1

Chapter 1:

Three Years Later

Thorin was not pleased. Gandalf, the enigmatic old duffer that he was had sent him on ahead to Bree in order to commission weapons (_as though Dwarves need Man-made weapons_) and perhaps recruit the aid of the local blacksmith while he went to the Shire to soften up their prospective burglar.

_Ridiculous, Dwarves neither need nor want the aid of Man or Hobbit,_ he thought as he made his way to the door of the blacksmiths shop with a hammer and anvil over top. He stopped momentarily to watch as a drove of children gathered and shuffled in front of the glass window of the store front. _Not the usual gawkers at a blacksmiths._

He caught the attention of a sallow faced youth attending a pony in front of the _Prancing Pony_ across from the _Hammer and Anvil_. "Lad, what has the young ones in such a state?" he asked.

The youth gave him a puzzled look, taking in his obviously non-human looks and travel stained cloak, and deciding that yes, this dwarven stranger did have an excuse to be so woefully ignorant of the most fascinating thing to befall Bree in all his born days.

"That be the _Hammer and Anvil_," he said as though it were and explanation in itself. "Blacksmith Nat owns it. He makes swords and axes that ne'er dull, lanterns that light yer way without fire, toys and dolls that move on their own, hoes and ploughs that ne'er break. Most of the little'uns is looking to see the new toys. Some of them is probably trying to see Blacksmith Nat his'self though. Nobody's ever seen his face, 'scept fer his 'pprentice, but he ne'er tells. Bit uppity is Bern. But I reckon he's got a great ugly scar right 'ere," he said while gesturing with his thumb from the bottom of his chin to his left eyebrow.

"I see," Thorin replied and made his way inside. Standing behind the counter in the back of the front room was a tall young man of burly proportions. "Bern, I assume," said Thorin as he appraised the various weapons, implements and strange contraptions that littered the walls and shelves of the shop.

"Aye, and how may I help you, Master Dawf?" asked the young man in what Thorin supposed was a friendly manner.

"I want to speak terms with your Master," he replied.

"I beg your pardon, Master Dwarf, but I do not think that will be possible. If you would leave your specification my master would be happy to relay his terms to you through me."

"Unacceptable, no dwarf would accept such terms!" Thorin grew red in the face, and geared up to give the young man a dressing down when a bell was heard from behind a door leading to the forge.

"One moment, Master Dwarf," said the young man. "My master calls me." With that he slipped behind the door, leaving a flustered and steadily angrier growing Thorin in his wake.

"Damn Wizards and their meddling!" exclaimed Thorin.

At that the door opened again and the young man and another figure stepped out. The other man was a good half foot taller than his apprentice though thinner and not quite so wide across the shoulders, wearing a leather jerkin and apron and gloves. His head was wrapped in a white cloth to protect against breathing in soot and his eyes were covered by dark tinted goggles, leaving his face and hair obscured.

"My master will conduct terms, but you must give your word not to disclose anything you learn about my master and his techniques," the young man said.

"I give you my word as a son of the House of Durin that I will tell none of your secrets," Thorin said, slightly exasperated.

"Wonderful," said the young man. He flipped the sign and closed all the shutters.

Thorin turned to the other man and watched in surprise as he removed the goggles and slowly unwrapped his face.

_Her face? A woman?_

It was a woman: olive skinned, a plate of chestnut hair wrapped tight at the back of her head, and amber-tinted hazel eyes. At six feet and broad-shouldered, she was possibly one of the most imposing females he had even met.

"I am Nat," she said, her voice deep and smooth but still decidedly feminine. "How can I help you?"

Thorin blinked. "Ah, yes. Have you made the acquaintance of Gandalf the Grey?" he asked.

She looked at him, then up to the ceiling, her eyes becoming cloudy before she replied. "I do not think so, but I cannot be sure."

"Right. My companions and I are about to embark on an expedition. There is much gold to be made from this venture but we find that we are ill prepared to embark. When I arrived here I was expecting to find a weapon smith of moderate skill that could replace our losses, but it appears that Gandalf had more in mind when he suggested you. So I ask you, what can you do for me?"

A slow knowing smirk wound its way across her face. "I can do much, but are you willing to pay? I can design grappling hooks that never slip, buckles for pouches and pack that will only work for their owners, swords that will never dull and never turn against their owners, caskets that keep food fresh and horseshoes that will keep your pony from turning lame. I can do much, what do you want?"

She had removed her jerkin and gloves, exposing corded muscle. Thorin swept from her arms to the swords, daggers, axes and war hammers.

"You have a fine hand at weapons, Mistress," he said. "Are you versed in their usage as well as their making?"

"I have a passing understanding of most, though I am best with the hammer. Why do you ask?"

"You could do much for us, but we have limited funds at the outset. I would like to take advantage of the opportunity you present, but we would not be able to pay you what your work is worth, but if you were to join our company, outfit us, we would split the profits, a whole fifteenth of a drawf mountain of gold. More than that, Mistress, I would be willing to introduce you to some of my people's finest craftsmen. You could learn the secrets of our halls, craft even greater marvels then the ones you do now. What say you, Mistress?"

"What is this expedition?" she asked.

"I am Thorin Oakenshield, and I will reclaim the land of my father's in the Lonely Mountain from the Dragon Smaug."

"Bern," she said, "you've learned much under me. I believe it is time for you to strike out on your own. When preparations are done the Smithy is yours."  
Bern was dumbstruck, "But, mistress," he began.

"Don't worry so much Bern. You'll get wrinkles," she said with a light heated laugh.

"Yes, mistress."

She turned back to Thorin, a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. "Shall we begin?" she asked.

Thorin lifted a single brow. "Aye, let us begin."


End file.
